Moving Pictures
June 30 2009


I remember stepping out
from the dark air-conditioned space
— a cartoon, a short
a western shoot-em-up —
into white-hot sun;
eyes squinting, tearing-up,
an ice-pick headache.

The doldrums of summer
tagging along with older brothers
to Saturday matinees.
Sticky floors
crappy speakers
kids shouting at the screen,
at the old Glendale theatre
on Bathurst St.,
now a parking lot.

It cost a quarter, I think,
the precious coin tightly in my clutches;
but not enough
for popcorn, candy.
Part 2, next Saturday.

We groaned when “To be continued . . . ” popped-up.
Not that the plot ever changed that much,
just black hats and white hats
a boring kiss, some bad guys bucked
rows of whistling hissing kids.

Because the movies were our first great love,
back when “cinema” was French
and “film” meant snapshots.

The manager must have hated Saturdays.
We couldn’t get enough.